ROBERT DEWITT: Gunshot survivor sympathizes for Newtown families

Published: Monday, December 24, 2012 at 3:30 a.m.

Last Modified: Sunday, December 23, 2012 at 3:14 p.m.

DEMOPOLIS | T.M. Culpepper has never forgotten about what happened on Christmas Eve in 1943. In the wake of the Newtown, Conn. shooting rampage the memory seems fresher and bloodier.

Watching the anguish of the parents who lost children made the anguish his parents felt 69 years ago seem suddenly real again. At 80 years old, he’s now a grandfather and has passed the business his father founded on to his own son.

But in 1943, Culpepper didn’t know if he’d see another Christmas Day.

“It happened on Christmas Eve,” Culpepper said. “It was carelessness and people not knowing that guns were dangerous.”

Culpepper had been out hunting on Christmas Eve morning, a lifelong pursuit that he still loves. A friend lived across Walnut Street in Demopolis from his parents’ backyard, and it was a place where kids from around the neighborhood congregated. After his morning hunt, he went to visit his friend.

Culpepper was sitting in his friend’s house and they were passing the day in the idle pursuits boys engage in. His friend didn’t hunt and wasn’t as familiar with guns as he was.

“I was reading a funny book,” Culpepper remembers. “He said ‘look here what I’ve got.’ I looked over and he had a pistol and he was pointing it at me. I said, put that thing down. I turned my head back to look at the funny book and ‘bam.’ ”

The pistol was a revolver, either a .32 or .38, Culpepper doesn’t know which. His friend was no more than 12 to 18 feet away. But the bullet went in one hip, coursed through his abdomen and exited at the other hip.

“When it hits you, you hear people say it’s like a hot poker going through you,” Culpepper said. “It was about like that. It knocked me back on the floor and I was rolling over and over and throwing up and I was in great pain. There’s a lot of initial pain.”

The room flew into chaos. Culpepper’s friend grabbed the telephone but didn’t know what to do. The family’s elderly black housekeeper came into the room and began screaming. Culpepper shouted that he was hurt bad and told them to call the doctor.

His friend had taken the phone off the hook. Back then, operators connected all calls. The operator could hear the commotion. She knew where the call was coming from, so she called the doctor and told him to go to the house.

Dr. William T. Cocke, whom Culpepper believes might have been the only doctor in Demopolis at the time, rushed to Culpepper’s aid. Culpepper’s parents were summoned.

Cocke gave him a shot of morphine and put bandages on him. He wasn’t bleeding much externally. But he was bleeding badly internally.

There was little else Cocke could do for Culpepper with the town’s limited medical facilities. He urged Culpepper’s father to drive the wounded boy to Selma, which had a hospital. His father would get him there faster than the ambulance.

“Dr. Cocke told Daddy to get there as fast as he could,” Cul-

pepper said.

Culpepper’s father stopped at a gas station downtown, but it was wartime and he’d forgotten his ration book. The owner said to take whatever gasoline he needed.

Little Susan Culpepper was watching all that was happening to her big brother.

“I was only 6 years old, and all I could think of was how was Santa Claus going to find me,” said Susan Culpepper, who now lives in Greensboro.

Her parents sent her to stay with a family friend. But they made sure she got all of her presents on Christmas morning.

They weren’t sure if young T.M. would be alive on Christmas morning, so his mother opened Christmas presents with him while he lay on the back seat as they sped toward Selma. It is moments like those that turn his thoughts to the people suffering in Newtown.

“The event hit me worse than anything,” Culpepper said. “As an older man that was hurt way back, I’m thinking more of what the family went through than what I went through. What they had to go through was so hard. They didn’t give me much of a chance to live.”

His father was speeding, and soon the Alabama Highway Patrol came in pursuit. In a day before CB radios or cellphones, he couldn’t tell them why he was driving so fast. So he just outran them.

The route to Baptist Hospital in Selma took the Culpeppers through Selma’s stately cemetery, a forbidding omen. But hospital staff members had been alerted and they were waiting. Culpepper had been feeling himself getting weaker and weaker. The last thing he remembers after the cemetery was the operating room lights.

Only a few years earlier, a gunshot wound to the abdomen was almost a certain death sentence. But new antibiotics changed that.

“The World War II drugs saved my life,” Culpepper said. “They didn’t know if I would make it. I didn’t wake up for three or four days.

“They took out several feet of my intestines. I was in bed for three months, flat on my back. It took a long time to overcome it.”

Culpepper had been young enough and strong enough to survive the trip, the surgery and the aftermath. He recovered fully and has lived a long, active life.

Culpepper has owned rifles and shotguns all of his life and was an excellent dove shot. He passed on his love of hunting to his son and his grandchildren. But he didn’t have any use for pistols.

“I wouldn’t have one,” He said. “I wouldn’t let (my son) have one. They love to hunt and I want them to hunt. But I don’t like pistols. If someone takes one out when I’m around, I ask them to put it away.”

He feels the same way about the assault rifles that are being debated in the aftermath of the Newtown massacre.

But his main thoughts are for the parents who lost children. He understands now the toll his injury took on his parents. Their son lived. How much worse is it for parents who will never see their sons and daughters again?

<p>DEMOPOLIS | T.M. Culpepper has never forgotten about what happened on Christmas Eve in 1943. In the wake of the Newtown, Conn. shooting rampage the memory seems fresher and bloodier.</p><p>Watching the anguish of the parents who lost children made the anguish his parents felt 69 years ago seem suddenly real again. At 80 years old, he's now a grandfather and has passed the business his father founded on to his own son.</p><p>But in 1943, Culpepper didn't know if he'd see another Christmas Day.</p><p>“It happened on Christmas Eve,” Culpepper said. “It was carelessness and people not knowing that guns were dangerous.”</p><p>Culpepper had been out hunting on Christmas Eve morning, a lifelong pursuit that he still loves. A friend lived across Walnut Street in Demopolis from his parents' backyard, and it was a place where kids from around the neighborhood congregated. After his morning hunt, he went to visit his friend.</p><p>Culpepper was sitting in his friend's house and they were passing the day in the idle pursuits boys engage in. His friend didn't hunt and wasn't as familiar with guns as he was.</p><p>“I was reading a funny book,” Culpepper remembers. “He said 'look here what I've got.' I looked over and he had a pistol and he was pointing it at me. I said, put that thing down. I turned my head back to look at the funny book and 'bam.' ”</p><p>The pistol was a revolver, either a .32 or .38, Culpepper doesn't know which. His friend was no more than 12 to 18 feet away. But the bullet went in one hip, coursed through his abdomen and exited at the other hip.</p><p>“When it hits you, you hear people say it's like a hot poker going through you,” Culpepper said. “It was about like that. It knocked me back on the floor and I was rolling over and over and throwing up and I was in great pain. There's a lot of initial pain.”</p><p>The room flew into chaos. Culpepper's friend grabbed the telephone but didn't know what to do. The family's elderly black housekeeper came into the room and began screaming. Culpepper shouted that he was hurt bad and told them to call the doctor.</p><p>His friend had taken the phone off the hook. Back then, operators connected all calls. The operator could hear the commotion. She knew where the call was coming from, so she called the doctor and told him to go to the house.</p><p>Dr. William T. Cocke, whom Culpepper believes might have been the only doctor in Demopolis at the time, rushed to Culpepper's aid. Culpepper's parents were summoned.</p><p>Cocke gave him a shot of morphine and put bandages on him. He wasn't bleeding much externally. But he was bleeding badly internally.</p><p>There was little else Cocke could do for Culpepper with the town's limited medical facilities. He urged Culpepper's father to drive the wounded boy to Selma, which had a hospital. His father would get him there faster than the ambulance.</p><p>“Dr. Cocke told Daddy to get there as fast as he could,” Cul-</p><p>pepper said.</p><p>Culpepper's father stopped at a gas station downtown, but it was wartime and he'd forgotten his ration book. The owner said to take whatever gasoline he needed.</p><p>Little Susan Culpepper was watching all that was happening to her big brother.</p><p>“I was only 6 years old, and all I could think of was how was Santa Claus going to find me,” said Susan Culpepper, who now lives in Greensboro.</p><p>Her parents sent her to stay with a family friend. But they made sure she got all of her presents on Christmas morning.</p><p>They weren't sure if young T.M. would be alive on Christmas morning, so his mother opened Christmas presents with him while he lay on the back seat as they sped toward Selma. It is moments like those that turn his thoughts to the people suffering in Newtown.</p><p>“The event hit me worse than anything,” Culpepper said. “As an older man that was hurt way back, I'm thinking more of what the family went through than what I went through. What they had to go through was so hard. They didn't give me much of a chance to live.”</p><p>His father was speeding, and soon the Alabama Highway Patrol came in pursuit. In a day before CB radios or cellphones, he couldn't tell them why he was driving so fast. So he just outran them.</p><p>The route to Baptist Hospital in Selma took the Culpeppers through Selma's stately cemetery, a forbidding omen. But hospital staff members had been alerted and they were waiting. Culpepper had been feeling himself getting weaker and weaker. The last thing he remembers after the cemetery was the operating room lights.</p><p>Only a few years earlier, a gunshot wound to the abdomen was almost a certain death sentence. But new antibiotics changed that.</p><p>“The World War II drugs saved my life,” Culpepper said. “They didn't know if I would make it. I didn't wake up for three or four days.</p><p> “They took out several feet of my intestines. I was in bed for three months, flat on my back. It took a long time to overcome it.”</p><p>Culpepper had been young enough and strong enough to survive the trip, the surgery and the aftermath. He recovered fully and has lived a long, active life.</p><p>Culpepper has owned rifles and shotguns all of his life and was an excellent dove shot. He passed on his love of hunting to his son and his grandchildren. But he didn't have any use for pistols.</p><p>“I wouldn't have one,” He said. “I wouldn't let (my son) have one. They love to hunt and I want them to hunt. But I don't like pistols. If someone takes one out when I'm around, I ask them to put it away.”</p><p>He feels the same way about the assault rifles that are being debated in the aftermath of the Newtown massacre.</p><p>But his main thoughts are for the parents who lost children. He understands now the toll his injury took on his parents. Their son lived. How much worse is it for parents who will never see their sons and daughters again?</p>